Epilogue for Iris
by OldDog9
Summary: The character of Iris Campbell, Reese's S4 love interest, was summarily dropped in the truncated S5 so that Reese could get back to being Reese. Whatever redemption she offered him vanished along with her character. In the PoI universe he left her and never came back. She must have wondered what had happened to him. I decided to give her the closure I thought she deserved.
1. Chapter 1

Epilogue for Iris

I couldn't tell you why I fell in love with the big, handsome liar. I knew right off that he was lying to me. He was a professional liar; had to be. So smooth: intimacy offered with twinkling blue eyes and a crooked smile. But the intimacy was faked and behind that smile was a sea of hidden mysteries. And those eyes? Behind the twinkling blues was an endless darkness, pain piled upon pain. Deep-eyed sadness that stretched back through years of trauma. Eyes full of guilt. Eyes full of half-hidden anger at betrayal after betrayal. And there was something else. It took me a long time to realize that something else was death. "Detective Riley" was a killer.

Falling in love was the wrong choice on so many levels. _Choice!_ As if I had a choice. I fought it but, in the end, I couldn't ignore my feelings for him. Even though I knew he was lying to me. Even though I knew it went against all my principles, against all my training. I could have lost my job and I love my job. None of that mattered because I loved him.

Whomever he really was.

I had grown-up with cops around me. Most of my family wore the uniform. And it was obvious "Riley" was no cop. He was no detective. He was no cop even though he had a personnel file full of commendations going back years. And his name wasn't "Riley" even though that's what it said in his file and in all his background checks. That name was just one more of his lies.

After a while I came to accept the lies. He had his reasons, I knew. And he thought they were good ones. I believed that if I earned his trust then one day he would let me into his world. He would explain the many mysteries that were his life. He would tell me the truth about who he really was and what he did – those "extracurricular activities" that had nothing to do with the job NYPD paid him to do. I'd seen him in action and it was like he could see things nobody else could see. He could see things before they happened. He knew where to be and what to expect, and he saved lives.

That was the one thing that overshadowed all the lies and the mysteries. He saved lives. He helped people and he saved lives. They wanted me to evaluate him because they thought he used excessive force. They thought he hurt people and enjoyed it. But he didn't like to hurt people. He just did what he had to do. Things that were necessary. Things that nobody else could do.

There were bad people out there and he was doing things that the rest of the force couldn't – or wouldn't – do. The rest of the force couldn't understand what I came to understand: that he saw what had to be done and he just did it. Procedures, rules, laws: they never stopped him from doing what he thought he had to do. The other cops couldn't see what he saw and so they decided he was a crazy paranoid cop with authority issues. They didn't understand him like I did. They didn't realize that the Departmental procedures they all followed were like chains to him. The rules got in his way. The rules kept him from doing what needed to be done. John did what he did outside all the procedures and all the rules, and he saved lives by doing it.

If he followed the rules then people would die.

I didn't push him to open up. Sometimes he did – just a little. But mostly he stayed closed and I let him know I accepted him the way he was. I told myself that I didn't need to know his story and why he did what he did. Some of that was true. I didn't _need_ to know; but I really wanted to know. I wanted to know all about the man I had fallen in love with.

One time he came close to telling me something true. He came to me in the precinct. He was trying to hide it but by then I knew him well enough to see through the veneer. He wasn't scared; he never got scared. But this was the closest he'd ever come to it. I guess _desperate_ would be the best description. Quiet, intense, and desperate. He told me to get out of The City for my own good. Something big was happening and he wanted me safe. He pretty much admitted what I'd long known: he was no cop. Whatever he was, some "wrong people" might figure it out too, and he thought they might come for me – because he said they would come for anybody he cared about. I tried to get him to tell me more but that was all I could get out of him. I made him promise to tell me what was going on and he said he would. He said he would explain everything, tell me the whole story, the next time we saw each other. I got the feeling he didn't think that was ever going to happen. But he promised me, and I believed him.

That was another lie. When it was over – whatever "it" was – he never told me anything. I loved him anyway.

I'm a big girl. I grew up around cops and that toughened me. I got a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology and I understand feelings and motivations. I talk to cops every day about what's going on for them and I try to help them deal with the incredible stresses that go along with their jobs. Other people couldn't handle that but I can. So I didn't go to pieces when John told me it was over between us. He pulled out all the guilt and betrayal and darkness from his past, and wrapped it around him like a blanket of sadness, using it to build a bulletproof vest that I could never get through. I walked away, leaving him to face his demons all alone.

But I never stopped loving him.

Somebody said that the Chinese have this curse: "May you live in interesting times." Meaning that interesting times suck. Much better to live in boring times of quiet prosperity and relative safety. Only the Chinese never actually said any such thing. Nobody knows where the saying comes from, but it doesn't come from the Chinese. That's another lie they tell us.

The time after John broke-up with me was "interesting" in the way the supposed Chinese curse meant that word. History is not going to know what to make of that time. Those of us who lived it can't begin to make sense of it. In the space of a few weeks there was an assassination attempt on the President and some big scandal in the Senate. And there was the ICE-9 cyberattack and the hack into the Navy ship that launched a missile into The City. And there was a scandal in the NYPD and several high-ranking officers were arrested. Others disappeared. In John's precinct several officers lost their lives in a mysterious shoot-out. And that was just here in The City. Across the country lots of people lost their lives and even more lost their jobs. After the cyberattack, everything just shut down for a while. The looting was intense. The City's Finest did their best but it wasn't enough. I noticed John wasn't around, and I wondered where he was and what he was doing. I missed him. But more importantly, the City missed him.

It was a chaotic and confusing time, to say the least. Dangerous, too. Most of us stayed in our apartments and watched the news, waiting for somebody to tell us what was going on and when it would be over. I remember 9/11. I had just gotten my undergrad degree in psychology earlier that summer and I was focused on gearing up for grad school. And then the planes hit The Towers and the world changed before our eyes. We all sat in front of our TVs, watching in disbelief as the pundits tried to make sense of it all. This time was like that time, only fifteen years later. The world was changing and we didn't understand how or why.

John would have understood it better, I think. That sixth sense he had for seeing danger before it happened would have guided him through the attacks and he would have been in the thick of things, shooting looters in the knees and saving lives. But he wasn't anywhere to be found.

Somehow we all got through that time – just as we all got through 9/11 – and, afterwards, after all the chaos had calmed and order was restored, we paused to reflect, to see where we had all ended up. Things seemed to return to normal but most of us knew better. "Normal" was just a thin façade that covered a world of strangeness we didn't understand. Anything could happen at any time. We didn't understand what had happened or why or how, but we knew that we were all vulnerable. Our wired, inter-connected, society was like a house of cards and it could be shaken to the ground in a moment. Like that house of cards, the cyberattack and all the other bizarre activities had shaken my City and my country – and the world – to their foundations. I found myself looking around me, wondering what was going to happen next. I realized I was looking for John. Silly me. I just couldn't let him go.

And then one day the phone rang.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I was walking along 6th Avenue and an old pay phone rang just as I walked by. I looked around and everybody else was ignoring the ringing, but for some reason I reached out and lifted the phone and held it to my ear.

"Hello," I said. There was a pause and then a woman's voice spoke. "Can you hear me, Iris?" she said.

"Yes." I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. How did she know it was me? How did she know I would be the one to answer the phone?

"Good," she said. I'm trying to think how to describe her voice. It was direct and matter-of-fact, but not flat. It was a charming voice, actually, with a hint of drawl. I could picture warm eyes and a small smile. But it was also a serious voice, a business voice. It made you want to listen.

"I know this is hard for you," she continued. "You don't know me. But I know you. And I'd like you to help me."

I didn't know what to say. How should I react to a stranger's voice who asked for help over the phone?

"Why should I?" I finally asked. At the time, it seemed like the most reasonable response out of all I could imagine.

"Because I'm not asking you to do anything that you would regret. Nothing unethical. Nothing wrong. I'd just like to hear your thoughts on a couple of things. As a trained psychotherapist."

"Not good enough. I need to know what's going on. Who are you? And why do you need my help?"

"Iris, some things you just have to take on faith."

"Not this," I said. "I don't do favors for strangers."

"Oh, I'm not a stranger. We've never met, but we're not strangers."

"That doesn't make any sense." I was getting tired of this banter and, quite honestly, I was getting a little freaked-out. Strange voices on a public phone asking for help was _not_ a normal occurrence for me.

"Iris, dear. I know you. I know all about you. I know all the good things you've done for the police department, how many officers you've counseled and helped. You're a good person. And I know the other things, too. The things you'd rather forget. Like your relationship with Detective Riley, for instance."

Some stranger knew about my affair with John. I thought I was going to faint.

The voice continued, gentle but insistent. "Would you say that your sexual relationship with Detective Riley violated Section 130.25 or Section 130.40 of the New York State Penal Code? Which Penal Code Section would the prosecutor pick for the charges? It doesn't really matter, you know. A conviction under either Section is still a Class E Felony. The good news is that you shouldn't get any jail time for your conviction. The bad news is that you lose your license."

I realized something as she spoke. I hadn't heard a hint of a charming drawl in her voice. Now it sounded like condescension with maybe a little patronizing arrogance thrown-in for good measure. It was the tone of a professional gambler who knew she had the nuts. She had the winning cards and all I had was a busted flush.

She waited while I tried to collect myself. The most I could do was a hoarse whisper. "Is this blackmail?"

"No, dear. I'm not threatening you. I'm simply letting you know how much I know about you. Would a stranger know about Detective Riley?"

"What … what do you want?"

"Weren't you listening? I said I want your help. I want to hear your thoughts on some issues. Let's say I need a consultation."

"I have office hours."

"Well, it's a little hard for me to get around these days. I'm going to give you a cell phone and we'll talk from time to time."

"Do I even have a choice?"

"Of course, dear. We all have free will."

I made a face. I didn't have a choice and she knew it.

A couple of days later I was in the precinct trying hard not to think about John. I was also trying hard not to press Fusco for information. Fusco had been John's partner and I guessed he had his own suspicions about what John did during his off-hours. We had met briefly at a charity gala about a year ago. John had been my plus-one and Fusco had also been at The Department's table. So we knew each other, at least a little. But I had stayed away from him because I didn't know how much he knew about me and John.

Fusco had been in some hot water with IA. They had questioned him for hours about what had happened to the dead officers. Nothing had stuck to him. From what I had heard about Fusco, nothing ever seemed to stick to him. Rumor had it he was dirty, or maybe he had been dirty once but turned on his own people. It didn't really matter. People still remembered the Simmons bust, and it was kind of a get-out-of-jail-free card. No matter what he did after that, he was forgiven. But that didn't mean people trusted him.

A courier came up to me with a package. Inside was the promised cell phone. I turned it on and held it away from me in case something happened. Of course nothing did. It was a normal cell phone.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Fusco watching me. His face was a question and his mouth was hanging open – like me receiving a cell phone from a courier and turning it on was the last thing he had expected to see. Obviously it meant something to him. But I didn't give him a chance to listen to the conversation I was about to have. I went into my precinct office and closed the door. Then I locked it.

The cell phone rang. Caller ID said "Thornhill."

"Hello, Iris," she said.

"Hello Ms. Thornhill," I replied.

There was a very slight hesitation, and then she said, "That name is acceptable. You may call me Ms. Thornhill."

"Is that your real name?"

"Of course not. But it will do for now."

Mentally I shrugged. What did names matter, anyway? "So ask me what you want to ask me," I said.

"Go to your desk and turn on your PC," she said.

I did and suddenly the screen was filled with a picture of a man and a rap sheet and personal history and … well, it was overwhelming. I was looking at the life story of somebody I didn't know. I was sure I shouldn't have all this information; some of it was PII or SPI, and that was For Official Use Only. Some of the info looked to be from wire or video taps. I was probably breaking about a dozen state and Federal laws just by possessing this stuff. I did that mental shrug again. I had already broken the law when I choose to kiss John. This was just more of the same.

Ms. Thornhill's voice continued from the phone. "I want you to study this man. Study him well. I need a case analysis of him and likely behaviors under certain stressors."

"Why?" I asked.

"I can predict his behavior with a certain degree of accuracy. However, I find the level of accuracy to be unacceptably low, given the importance of the situation. I'm looking for your input to help me increase my level of predictive accuracy. After you've worked up your analysis, I'll pose certain … let us call them scenarios. You will offer your behavioral predictions. We'll discuss the bases for your predictions. That's all I'm asking of you."

"Who is this guy?"

"All you need to know is on your PC. You'll find the data rather complete, I believe."

"Okay. How long do I have?"

She hesitated for a brief second. "It may already be too late," she said.

I got to work. In a way, it was a professional challenge. I had to diagnose the subject from a distance, based only on what I had before me. I couldn't ask him any questions. I couldn't interview him and watch his body language for cues as I probed. All I had to work with were the computer files.

But those files were all I needed. I had videos and audio clips. I had personnel evaluations. I had test scores. I even had a video from a therapy session the subject had attended a couple of years ago. (I wasn't going to worry about how the video violated Doctor-Patient confidentiality. I was already way beyond that concern.) I recognized the therapist: Doctor Ronald Carmichael. Doctor Carmichael had been the Chief Psychiatrist at Stoneridge Hospital until a couple of years ago. There had been some trouble with a patient and he had been pressured to resign. I hadn't heard of him since. The video was about 30 minutes long, and in it the subject discussed his early childhood and relationship with his parents. Suffice to say, he had some Daddy issues. That was all I needed to fit the rest of the pieces together.

I sat back and rubbed my forehead. Several hours had passed and I was bushed. That's when the phone rang again.

"So, Iris," she said. "Tell me what you learned."

I was so tired I didn't even think to ask how she knew I was ready to discuss the subject.

"This guy has spent his entire life, from childhood to today, trying to impress his father. That's what motivates him. It's what got him into Harvard and pushed him to _summa cum laude_ and it's what made him a workaholic. It's why he lives in a multi-million dollar co-op and why he married his trophy wife. It's why he has a ridiculously expensive car that he can't drive in The City and why he has a yacht moored in Long Island that he never has time to sail. He wears three thousand dollar suits and a gold Rolex watch. His shirts are custom-made and he has his hair cut every week. He's a member of three exclusive clubs. And he does it all in hopes of hearing his father tell him – just once – how proud he is of his son."

I visualized Thornhill slightly smiling as she said, "Yes, agreed. He wants his father's approval. It drives him. It's a shame his father died in 1999, of complications associated with long-term alcoholism." I nodded, forgetting that Thornhill couldn't see me. She continued, "So if he's driven by the search for parental approval from a dead father, then let's explore what might threaten him and how he might react. First scenario –"

We spent the rest of the day discussing various scenarios and likely responses. Some of the scenarios were frightening. The more banal ones included loss of job, marital infidelity, divorce, loss of savings and investments, false accusations of various crimes, et cetera. But the frightening ones included kidnapping, torture, death of loved ones, and similar stuff that made me ill to discuss. Finally we finished. I was exhausted – both physically and mentally.

Thornhill told me she was satisfied with our collaboration. She said, "Iris, this was very helpful. It solidified a lot of my thinking about possible stressors and responses. We can end our relationship now, if you'd like. But I would like to continue it, if you are willing. I'd like to put you on the payroll in an official capacity, a second job for you, if you will."

"I'm not sure," I said. "What would I do?"

"Oh, more of this. I have a fair number of individuals I'm interested in knowing more about, and you could help me. Purely on a consultative basis, of course. You can set your own hours and we'll agree on an hourly rate of remuneration."

"How much?" I figured I might as well see how far this would go. She didn't hesitate. "How does five hundred dollars an hour sound?"

"Do you know how many forms The Department makes me fill out if I take a second job?"

"Yes, I do. And if you accept my offer I'll see that they are all filled out for you."

I don't know why I said yes. But that's what I said.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

She didn't lie. All the forms were filled out. And they had been approved in record time, too. Whomever Ms. Thornhill was, she could get things done.

My first day as a consultant to the Thornhill Corporation was interesting, but in a different way. Maybe I was getting used to how Thornhill operated, but it didn't surprise me that she had expensive office space midtown. I walked up to the pretty but competent-looking receptionist, who greeted me before I could open my mouth.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Campbell," she said. "Here's your badge and here's our employee manual. Your office is down the hall to the left."

My office had my name on a little nameplate. The nameplate said "Vice President, Human Resources," which was nice but not exactly accurate. I was a consultant, not a corporate officer. As I turned to open my door, I noticed a couple of things. First, I had to swipe my badge to unlock my door. And second, I noticed there were security cameras thickly scattered on the ceiling, and one of them was right in front of my door.

I went in. There was a security camera in the ceiling of my office. So much for privacy.

I turned on my monitor and Thornhill's voice came out of the speakerphone on my desk.

"I hope you like the accommodations," she said. "I wanted you to feel valued."

"I do feel valued – perhaps over-valued. I'm not your Vice President of anything."

Thornhill ignored me. "Let's get to work," she said.

Days passed and my new routine started to feel like normal. Mornings at the Precinct, afternoons at Thornhill, evenings typing up notes for the next day.

I learned that any curiosity about Thornhill or her corporation was wasted because there was no way to find anything out. Each afternoon, the receptionist greeted me. I walked to my office and shut the door. That was it. After two weeks of this routine I knew where the bathroom was and where the breakroom was. I couldn't tell you how many offices there were or how many floors the corporation occupied. I didn't know what the corporation even did!

I didn't know any other employees except for the receptionist. I knew that there _were_ other employees, because I passed several closed doors on the way to my office. But the doors stayed closed. I would have liked to meet L. Tao, Vice President of Investment Accounting. Or S. Shaw, Director of Corporate Security. Or _anybody_ , really. I wanted to know if there was anybody else like me, trapped like Alice in this wonderland of … whatever it was. But the doors stayed closed and the corridors were empty, and it was just me and the receptionist. And the mysterious voice of Ms. Thornhill.

I wanted to meet her. I wanted to meet this person and try to understand what made her tick. She was smart, obviously. Not just smart, but genius smart. She knew history and anatomy and chemistry and neurobiology, and her knowledge of psychiatry was astounding. She really didn't need me; she could do this on her own. She also had resources that put the NYPD and the FBI to shame. She could get normal records within minutes, and she could get confidential records in just a few minutes more. In this post-ICE-9 age, you were not supposed to be able to hack firewalls. What had once been the Internet was now slow as molasses because of all the security checks the Government had built into the system. What had taken seconds in 2015 might now take minutes, or even hours. (Which is why all the social networking sites no longer existed.) Nobody should have been able to acquire data that quickly. It was more than that, though. She had access to stuff she shouldn't have been able to obtain, period. I was sure some of it was classified by the government, but there were no official markings to confirm my feeling. Perhaps all the markings had been removed. It wouldn't have surprised me.

I wanted to meet this woman who had all this knowledge and resources at her disposal. And then I wanted to ask her about her subjects. What did she want with them? Was she really going to approach them in the manner we both agreed would be most effective? Thornhill (or whatever her name really was) clearly had power and the knowledge to use her power. The question that kept me up at night was, "why?" Why did she need this information and these resources? What was her goal here? I needed to meet her and ask her, face to face.

Back at the precinct, Fusco was becoming a problem. He had taken an interest in me ever since the cell phone had arrived. Now his eyes followed me wherever I went. Not like a man eyes a woman; I had gotten used to those hungry stares years ago. No, more like a cop eyes a suspect: looking for clues in body language, watching for any mistakes that would confirm the suspect was the perp. He wanted confirmation of something and he wouldn't let it go.

Finally one day he grabbed my arm and spoke quietly into my ear. "Doc, we've got to talk."

He took me outside and we walked down the street, his hand still on my arm. Not hurting me but letting me know this was serious. We walked into a park and found a place to sit. He looked around to see if we had space to talk, and then he looked me in the eyes, like a cop looks into the eyes of a suspect, trying to force the truth through willpower.

"So, Doc. I see you got a new cell phone."

"Yes, I did. So what?"

"Delivered by courier right to the station."

"Yes."

"And now you've got a new job that takes you away most afternoons, doing God knows what."

"Again, yes. Approved by the Captain. Again, so what?"

"Doc, this is important. More important than you could know. You need to tell me who you're working for."

"Detective Fusco. _Really_. I need to tell you who I'm working for? Because … ?"

"Because I had a second job once, too. And it nearly cost me my life. And it cost some of my friends their lives."

"That's a little dramatic, isn't it?"

Fusco was about to respond when a lady showed up. She was smallish, wearing boots with heels, dressed in black, wearing her long black hair in a ponytail. She had on dark glasses and at her side was a really big dog. She and the dog seemed to appear out of nowhere. Fusco shut up when he noticed them.

She ignored me and just looked at Fusco for a second. When she spoke it was with amusement, as if she and Fusco were sharing an inside joke.

"Lionel," she said, "what are you doing here with Doctor Campbell?"

"Ah, Shaw, the Doc here got a brand new cell phone couriered to her right in the station. Then she got a new job in mid-town. I'm tryin' to figure out why and who she's working for now."

"Fusco, let it go. We've got this."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Doctor Campbell doesn't need your assistance. At least, not now." She flashed a very small, brief smile. "After all, she's got me."

Fusco's shoulders sagged a bit. He knew he was being dismissed from whatever mission he had thought he was on. "All right," he said in a quiet voice. He looked at me.

"Sorry, Doc."

"No problem. And who is this?"

Fusco looked at Shaw, who nodded to him. He had permission to answer my question. It was obvious who held the power in that relationship.

He said, "This is Shaw. We used to … work together. At my second job."

Shaw took off her dark glasses and looked me in the eyes. Let me tell you, the only eyes I have ever seen that were more frightening than hers were the eyes of the murderers awaiting their turn on death row. Her eyes were big and dark and there was no emotion in them whatsoever. Her black eyes were dead inside. I was looking into the eyes of a killer. The killer nodded to me and said, "Sameen Shaw, Director of Corporate Security."

Shaw told me to take a walk and so I did. I watched them closely, though I couldn't hear what they were saying. Based on the gestures and body language, they were arguing. Fusco wanted something and Shaw was saying no. He felt entitled to whatever he wanted; it was a matter of principle to him. Shaw, for her part, wasn't giving in to his entreaties. She wasn't threatening towards him; she just didn't give in. She might have been a brick wall because all his passionate pleas seemed to bounce off of her. At the end of the conversation he nodded in defeat and then she handed him a slip of paper. He looked at it for a while and nodded again, this time with a bit more acceptance.

Shaw and her dog came over to me and she said, "Detective Fusco won't bother your anymore."

"You know him?" I asked. She nodded but didn't offer anything more. I tried to ask her some more questions but she turned and walked away quickly, the big dog following alongside.

And that's how I met the third employee of the Thornhill Corporation.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The days turned into weeks and my routine continued. Mornings at the precinct, afternoons at Thornhill, nodding to the receptionist but never seeing anybody else, followed by evenings alone in my apartment. My parents said they were worried about me so I added Sunday dinners with them to the routine. The Thornhill evaluations continued as well, but now we discussed potential hires. Thornhill was very particular about the kind of people she was looking for: they had to have the necessary skills but she wanted more from them. She wanted leadership skills and the ability to think and act independently. She wanted principle and integrity. She wanted "honor" if that word means much of anything anymore. And those attributes were hard to identify and even harder to verify. Still, we discussed the subjects and I grew to accept our strange relationship: a disembodied voice from the speakerphone who seemed to have access to anything she needed or wanted. If any piece of information existed she could get it. It was scary at first but by the end of a couple of months of our interactions, it seemed normal. In retrospect, maybe that was the scariest part of all.

I saw Fusco around the precinct but he stayed away from me, just as Shaw had promised he would. A few times I thought he wanted to tell me something but then he would shake his head and walk away. He was probably remembering that conversation with Shaw and her dog in the park. Then one day he just wasn't there anymore. His desk was cleared and he was gone. I heard he won the Lottery. Of course he had immediately retired from the Force. There had been no retirement party because, well, _Fusco_. Rumors said he was a millionaire now and had moved with his son to Long Island. Good for him, I thought. I hoped he enjoyed his retirement.

One day Thornhill told me my job was completed and I was done. It shouldn't have surprised me but it did. I mean, I had realized for a while that she didn't need my input anymore, if she ever had. She had been humoring me, letting me think I was contributing, but it had become clear my contributions weren't worth five hundred dollars an hour. I had been half-expecting the news, but its suddenness managed to surprise me anyway. She fired me.

This is how it happened:

I entered my office and turned on the monitor. Instead of files awaiting review I saw the face of a woman, looking at me. She had dark shoulder-length hair and dark eyes that shone with intelligence. She was beautiful. Then she spoke and Thornhill's voice came out of the speaker.

"I've been trying to think of a good analogy," she said.

"What?" I answered, flustered at the change of our routine.

"About me. About all this. I've been trying to think of a good analogy to explain to you what it is we are doing. I don't want to tell you the truth, because you don't need to know the truth. But you deserve some form of closure. I've been trying to think of how to explain it to you via analogy so you'd understand without necessarily understanding."

"Or you could just tell me the truth."

"No." Her head shook. "That is not going to happen. I don't like where those paths go."

She continued. "My first analogy was a professional sports team, like an NBA team or a Major League Baseball team."

"Go on," I said.

"There are many parts that make up a team. Everybody has a part to play to make the team successful. There are starters and the bench players. There are coaches and a manager. There are scouts and trainers and bat boys. And what's interesting is that the team identity endures even if the individuals change. The fans still cheer for their team and it doesn't really matter who's playing on the team that day. Somebody gets traded and a new player comes on board. A coach is fired or gets a new job. It doesn't matter because the team is still the team. The Yankees are still the Yankees even though the Babe and Lou don't play anymore. They are still the Yankees even though the Babe and Lou are long dead. The team is more important than the individual players."

"And where do you fit into the analogy?"

She nodded and smiled at me. "Good question. That's where the analogy breaks down because I can't find a suitable role for me. I'm not the owner because even owners can change. The fact of the matter is that if I'm not here then there is no team. Or, more accurately, the team becomes irrelevant. I thought I might be the League Commissioner, but the Commissioner reports to the team owners; they pay his salary. And that's not me. I thought maybe I'm the league itself; maybe I'm the NBA. But without the teams there is no league, and that's not me either. So the professional sports team analogy didn't work and that's why I tried another analogy. I thought about making a major film, maybe summer blockbuster."

"Why is that better?"

"Again, there are many individual roles in such an endeavor. More than most people realize. There are the leads, of course: the stars. But there are supporting roles too. And there's a huge support staff: makeup and costuming, props and transport and accounting. And there's a director and at least one producer. And a cinematographer. Most movies have huge special effects teams located all over the world. And there are investors who fund the production. The list goes on. There's the post-production team, the editors and the people who compose and play the score. There are Foley artists. The thing is, for some of those roles it almost doesn't matter who does them. The movie is still the movie no matter who does the production accounting or who the production assistants are."

"And…?"

"And that analogy doesn't work either. Because if you change a person you get ripple effects and the movie turns out slightly differently than it would have otherwise."

"Assuming that analogy was sound, what would your role be?"

Thornhill looked at me and said in a serious tone, "I would be the movie studio that hires the writer and the director and the producer. I would see the script and greenlight it. I would see the rough cut and decide it needed a reshoot. I would approve the finished product for release. And I would be the film distributor. But I would also be the newspapers and the media outlets that published both the movie advertisements and the opinions of the movie critics."

"That doesn't make any sense. One person can't be all those things."

She nodded. "I know," she said. "It's too complicated. That's why I needed to try another analogy, a simpler one. Think of a rock 'n' roll band."

"Okay," I said.

"The band members play the music. The musicians can change but the songs the band plays are still the same."

"I'm with you so far."

"And the band has roadies to help them with their concerts. There are managers and promoters and merchandisers. Sometimes the band records music and then another group of people help make that happen. All those roles revolve around the band. If the band doesn't make music, then everything falls apart."

"Okay, I think I understand. In this analogy I'm guessing you are the record company that has signed the band to a contract and makes sure everything happens that is supposed to happen."

Thornhill smiled and nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm that company. That's the closest I can get to explaining my role in all this. I'm the record company and I watch out for my bands and make sure their music happens the way it should. It's their music, not mine. They write the music and play it and record it. I take care of the rest."

"Okay, if you are the record company then what am I? Am I talent scout?"

The face on the screen smiled. "Again, Iris, you understand me. You've been helping me scout the other bands and you've been helping me decide which new musicians I want to sign to a contract. There are a lot of indie bands and I want some of them for my company; the others can go their own way. Except for a few; those need to stop making music so that my company can thrive." Then she paused. "That's my story for you. And now it's time for you to leave the company. Your job is done. We've got a full pipeline of talent. I know which bands to sign, which to ignore … and which ones to discourage."

I won't say I wasn't relieved, because I was. But I was also a little sad. I had become accustomed to my lonely little routine, to the disembodied voice with whom I collaborated in psycho-analyzing strangers. I sighed and nodded. Time to go.

"And to thank you for playing with us, I have a little parting gift for you. I won't say you're going to like it, but I do believe you will appreciate it."

The door opened and I looked up to see Shaw, who motioned to me. When it was time to go, it was time to go. I took a final look at my monitor but Thornhill was already gone and the screen was black.

Chapter 5

Shaw was a woman of remarkably few words. She silently took my badge and handed it to the receptionist. She was silent for the entire elevator ride. When we got to the street there was a car waiting for us, one of those new driverless cars. I had never been in one before. We both got in the back. Her dog was already there, waiting for her. There was barely room for all three of us in there.

"How long have you worked for Ms. Thornhill?" I asked, trying to break the ice. Shaw just looked at me with those eyes. Finally she said, "Most of my professional life, as it turns out." And then she turned to look out the window as the car headed to Long Island.

The car stopped in front of a nice house and Fusco got into the front passenger seat. He looked good, tan and rested and thinner than the last time I had seen him. Apparently money was good for one's health. He nodded to us and then reached back to scratch the dog's neck. "How you doin', Bear?" he said affectionately. Shaw's dog, Bear, seemed to know and accept him, which I found very interesting.

Shaw let him interact with the dog for a while, and then asked him about his son. I gathered young Fusco was doing well in his new school and that college prospects were looking good. I really wasn't paying that much attention because I was trying to put the pieces together. Shaw and Fusco, both working for Thornhill. And if Fusco … maybe John? Yes, that seemed to make sense. John's extracurricular work could have been for Thornhill. I could see that.

Eventually the car entered the gates of a Veterans' Cemetery. We proceeded into the cemetery and soon came to a stop.

"Why are we here?" I asked Shaw. She cocked her head a bit, as if she were thinking about the answer or, perhaps, listening to somebody. After a second she said, "This is your parting gift. It's closure. Closure for you and for us. Closure for you and John."

When she said that ice ran down my spine and pooled in my stomach. I knew what my parting gift was going to be and why I wasn't going to like it.

Fusco turned his head and looked back at Shaw for a long moment. "I thought you said no news was no news," he said. His face was somber.

She looked back at him, her eyes as dead as ever, her face without emotion. "This is news."

We got out of the car. My knees were trembling and Fusco had to hold me up. We walked a few feet and Shaw pointed at a tombstone. At first I didn't get it because it didn't say "Riley" but after a second I noticed it did say "John" and it also said "Sergeant, United States Army" and the date of death was fairly recent, and then I got it and I started to cry.

I heard Shaw say something in a foreign language and then Bear the dog was next to me and I put my arms around him while I bawled into his fur like a little girl.

After a time my cell phone rang and Shaw reached into my coat and swiped it on. Thornhill's voice came out of the speaker. I didn't see how the others reacted to her voice because I had my head buried in Bear's fur, but I heard her words and I'm sure the others did too. Those words are burned into my soul forever.

Thornhill said gently, "Iris, before you joined the record company there was a band and I watched over them and helped them out from time to time. I sometimes suggested the tune but the music was all theirs, not mine. Shaw was in the band but before she joined the band was already in place, and she helped them play the same songs they had been playing for years. Fusco joined as a roadie but later on he got up on stage with the band, and he helped them play their songs, the same songs that they had been playing for years. Before Shaw and Fusco, the man you knew as John Riley was in the band. He was one of the stars, the lead guitarist you might say. But the band existed before John joined it. The band was writing music and playing it and recording it before John, but John was a star and he took the music to places the band hadn't been able to get to before. Unfortunately, he gave his life to further the music. I wanted you to know that."

I managed to mumble a question from deep within Bear's fur. "How did he die?"

Thornhill replied softly. "Do you remember one of the early sessions with John, when you suspected he suffered from hero syndrome?"

"Yes," I said. I remembered it well. He had been so good at closing down and it had taken all my tricks to even get him to answer me.

"You told him he didn't have to save everybody. Do you remember his answer?"

"Of course I do. He looked at me sadly and said, 'Yes, I do'."

Thornhill said, "Well, Iris, you should know that he did. That's my parting gift to you: to know that he gave his life to save everybody. He died a hero and without him the band would have broken-up and their music would have died. He didn't just save the band; he saved the record company. Without him the record company would have closed down forever. But because of him, the band will keep playing and their music will still be heard. There will be new players – you helped me pick some of them – and there will be new music. The band that John starred in will continue to play music. The band will continue to live on, even though he won't be a part of it anymore."

Her voice continued. "Iris, thank you for helping us out. Now the bands can continue to play and John's legacy will be secure. This is the last time we'll have a conversation, but please know that I'll be watching you. I expect great things from you. Goodbye."

After a while, Bear, Fusco, and Shaw walked me back to the car and we drove back to The City. I left Thornhill's cell phone behind, next to John's grave.


End file.
